


Getting Physical

by akitsuko



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John's Strength is Sexy, M/M, Manhandling, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Smut, Top John, Vocal Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 09:24:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17485520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akitsuko/pseuds/akitsuko
Summary: Sherlock persuades John to indulge him after he discovers how much John's strength turns him on.





	Getting Physical

**Author's Note:**

> Someone asked me for a fic where John is powerful and strong, and Sherlock loves it. Took me a bit longer than I thought because I got distracted reading a series with more than 500k words... oops. 
> 
> If anyone else has any prompts, feel free to send them my way. Always happy to add to the list of things I want to write for this ship.
> 
> Not proof-read.

It starts one day while they’re on a case, when Sherlock finds himself in harm’s way and before he has a chance to react, John has grabbed two fistfuls of his coat and hauled him unceremoniously to a safer position.

 

It sparks a niggling idea of _something_  in Sherlock’s mind, except he’s not quite sure what it is.

 

Then it happens again. Sherlock is struggling to maintain a fascade of politeness and decorum in the face of an allegedly important person or other, when John interrupts, takes him by the shoulders and physically drags him away. The verbal reprimand he subsequently receives falls on deaf ears, because now Sherlock has been able to identify a pattern, a correlation between John’s behaviour and the fluttery niggle in the pit of his stomach that he couldn’t quite pin down the first time.

 

The more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense to him, and he finds himself getting antsy and irritable as he waits for an opportune moment to bring up his exciting conclusion in conversation with John.

 

It takes several days for the moment to come. First he has to wait for their current case to be concluded. Then John is busy working at the surgery, and Sherlock becomes unexpectedly immersed in an experiment involving skin cell decomposition, and by the time they both have a free couple of minutes together at the flat, Sherlock feels that he’s about ready to burst.

 

John is sitting at the kitchen table, a mug of tea in one hand and a newspaper in the other. So Sherlock approaches him in the same way that he does whenever he wants something. He comes to stand behind John, running his hands over John’s shoulders and along his biceps, leaning down to press light kisses along the side of his neck. John hums appreciatively, tilting his head slightly to the side to give Sherlock more room to work.

 

“Well?” he prompts, when Sherlock doesn’t let up on his attentions after a minute or so.

 

“Well, what?” Sherlock murmurs back against his skin.

 

“You’re after something. What is it?”

 

Sherlock grins, sucking briefly on the patch of neck in front of him, then answers, “I want you to manhandle me.”

 

John cranes his head around to give him a quizzical look. “You want me to manhandle you?”

 

“Mmm.” Sherlock slides his hands forward onto John’s chest, lifting his head slightly to breathe his next words against John’s ear. “You’re a powerful man, and I’ve recently realised how dreadfully arousing it is. Get rough with me. Throw me around a little. Use all that strength to get me exactly where you want me.” He nips at John’s earlobe, then swipes at the sensitive skin with his tongue. “Where do you want me, John?”

 

John drops the paper to the table, and he places his mug down with enough force that a little tea sloshes up and spills over the side. Sherlock only has a moment to bask in the victory of getting what he wants before John stands abruptly, takes him by the hand, and drags him none too gently in the direction of their bedroom. It is all Sherlock can do to follow him.

 

They barely get through the door before John flings him towards the bed, and Sherlock almost trips over his feet in his haste to get there. He shuffles back onto the mattress properly as John pulls his own jumper and vest over his head in one go, and Sherlock is unabashed as his grin threatens to split his face in two.

 

Because _yes _,__  this is what he was after. The arousal coiling in the pit of his belly, his body’s response to this brief display of the raw power John controls, is a familiar feeling to him now. His heart beats harder as John’s upper body is exposed, his muscular form compact and utterly gorgeous, and his mouth waters in anticipation as John approaches him, hunger in his eyes and an obvious erection pushing at the front of his jeans.

 

Still, as John climbs up to straddle his hips, Sherlock can’t resist a small attempt to rile him a bit further, even while his gaze becomes fixated on John’s mouth. “You don’t take much convincing.”

 

John doesn’t reply. Instead, he wraps one hand around the back of Sherlock’s head, fingers tangling tightly in his hair, and braces the other against the mattress as he pulls Sherlock to him in a deep and bruising kiss. Sherlock feels as though all his blood has rushed south at once; he can’t help but moan into John’s mouth, his own hands coming up to cling around John’s back. By the time John pulls back, Sherlock is breathing heavily and his hips are thrusting up pitifully against thin air.

 

John smirks down at him, keeping his own hips up and depriving Sherlock of the friction he seeks, and Sherlock whines with a combination of want and frustration.

 

It’s not fair, the speed at which John is capable of getting him worked up. The way it only takes a look, or a touch, or a kiss, and Sherlock loses a significant chunk of his cognitive function to the overwhelming sexual haze that descends upon him. All he can think about is John and how he wants him and how there can’t be anything more important than allowing John to consume him. And meanwhile, John is capable of deliberately teasing him, of playing him like a violin, of maintaining control over both of them until he simply _can’t_  any more and he finally loses himself too.

 

But he doesn’t have a chance to dwell on how unfair it is, because then John’s hands are on him and flipping him onto his stomach like it’s nothing, his grip solid almost to the point of painful, and it’s absolutely wonderful. Sherlock sucks in a gasp as his cock is trapped against the mattress, and whimpers as John pins him in place, pressing his weight along the length of his back. He tries to squirm, to wriggle his hips and achieve a little relief, but John (perfect John who always seems to know exactly what he needs) gives him no room to move, grinding relentlessly against his arse and limiting his movement further by holding down his elbows. All Sherlock can do is whine helplessly from the delight of it all as John’s cock rubs against the crack of his arse through the layers of their clothes, as John’s musky scent surrounds him and as John trails hot, biting kisses down the back of his neck and along the angles of his shoulders. He can’t even get enough leverage to push back. He’s at John’s mercy and it is heavenly.

 

John keeps them like this for a while, his pace steady and his grip strong, as Sherlock feels himself becoming further and further unravelled. Tension is strung throughout his body as his whimpers slowly become more desperate, his brow furrowing and his teeth clenching as he writhes his head from side to side, the only part of his body he can actually move. Being undone like this, it’s exquisite, and though he knows realistically that he won’t be able to come from just this unapologetic grinding, he can feel his faculties slipping further away by the second as his senses are filled with John.

 

Then John is speaking into his ear, and the sound of his voice, gravelly with arousal, is so unbearably sexy that Sherlock has to concentrate to hear the actual words. “Let me hear you.”

 

For a moment, through the haze of his own excitement, Sherlock is confused. Then John is sitting up, relieving the pressure against his back, and before Sherlock can comprehend the change in position, he is squawking in a way that would be embarrassing in any other situation. Because John has wrapped one hand underneath his hips, lifting him away from the bed, and is using the other to yank his elasticated pyjama bottoms down to his thighs. Then John drops him again, and has both of his hands grabbing and kneading at the flesh of his arse, and his grip is firm and commanding and glorious. Sherlock is vaguely aware of a high-pitched, keening sound coming out of his mouth, and he can feel his face heating with a flush; he grips the sheet tightly and uses the space he’s been granted to thrust shallowly against the bed, screwing his eyes shut to focus on John.

 

He knows that John loves it when he loses himself like this. It probably plays to his ego, but Sherlock has found that he doesn’t particularly care. John _does_ something to him, makes him feel feelings and experience experiences in ways that no other person has done before, and if his expression of that is what makes John happy, then he is more than willing to give it. So he never holds back, he lets John know exactly how much he enjoys their time together like this, and where perhaps once upon a time it would have been a humiliating experience… now, it’s just one of the ways he can show John how much he appreciates him. Besides, there’s something undeniably liberating about exposing this side of himself to John, the only man he has ever trusted enough to see it.

 

And, of course, John never lets him down, never allows him to feel like letting himself become vulnerable is a mistake. John treats him like he’s special, like he’s worthy. John tells him that he loves him, and at times like this, Sherlock can let himself believe it.

 

“How are you this perfect?” John murmurs from above him. Then the unmistakeable snap of the lid on the lube bottle hits his ears (when did John even get hold of it? Sherlock is clearly more out of it than he’d realised), and before he knows it, John has a slick finger pressing inside him.

 

And _oh_ , there’s nothing that can compare to having the feeling of John inside him, whether it’s his fingers or his tongue or his dick. Sherlock moans, not bothering to monitor the volume of his voice, alternating his undulations against the bed with pushing his hips back, the want of _more_ overcoming him. John’s free hand strokes along his back, squeezes at his hip, firmly takes hold of his arse cheek and pulls him open, and the added exposure does nothing to reduce the quantity or the volume of Sherlock’s whimpers.

 

Another finger, and John is scissoring them, and the stretch is a familiar, pleasurable burn. Sherlock’s automatic reaction is to try to wriggle away from the feeling, the sensation of fullness and almost pain, but the anticipation of what’s still to come keeps him pliant every time, overriding his body’s response to being invaded. He can hardly wait, and of course John can read him so well, because it’s at this moment that he brushes his fingertips against Sherlock’s prostate with clinical accuracy, and Sherlock wails.

 

The continuous pressure of the mattress against his cock is almost torturous now, and he’s filled with the need for John, nothing but John, never anything but John. “John,” he grinds out between breathy moans. “John, please…”

 

“Jesus…” Three fingers now, and John’s movements are less teasing than before, more preparatory. He’s started to lose his restraint too, Sherlock can tell, and the thought of it makes him impossibly harder. That little bit of added edge to John’s motions, it’s addictive, and Sherlock finds himself shamelessly trying to impale himself further on those wonderful fingers. Every muscle in his body feels tense, and John is nudging his prostate again, insistent and sure, and suddenly Sherlock feels incredibly close. It takes him by surprise, but he can’t speak, his mouth simply hangs open as his breath comes faster and he begs internally that John will understand.

 

John does understand, because of course he does, he’s _John_ , and he understands Sherlock better than anybody else ever could. It’s almost a relief as he withdraws his fingers, giving Sherlock a moment to recompose himself, to come back from the edge, but he simultaneously feels empty and bereft, and he can’t help but thrust his hips back into blank space.

 

John shifts behind him, coming to kneel between his thighs, and he leans down to speak against the small of his back. “You asked for this, love. So you don’t get to set the pace.”

 

A shudder runs down Sherlock’s spine, and he almost comes untouched at the words.

 

Then John wraps his hands around Sherlock’s hips, pulling him back and up, effortlessly yanking his entire body down the bed until Sherlock’s crotch is hoisted into his lap. One hand is enough to keep Sherlock’s body in place, while the other disappears; Sherlock doesn’t have time to wonder where it goes, because then the blunt head of John’s cock is pressing against his entrance, breaching the tight ring of muscle with very little warning. He hadn’t even realised that John had pushed his own jeans and boxers down. His eyes roll back as he wills his body to relax through the penetration, but John presses forward, slow and steady until he’s fully seated and Sherlock can hardly remember his own name.

 

Sherlock hasn’t told John in so many words, but he loves it when John takes him like this, in one slow slide without giving him time to completely adjust to every inch. It takes his breath away in every sense of the expression, and sends his brain completely offline. All of a sudden, John is everywhere and everything, and he revels in the sensation of being completely and utterly overwhelmed by him.

 

He expects John to fuck him without ceremony or affection today. He expects John to drive into him with lust-addled power, maybe keeping him pinned down at the hands or shoulders, and he’s almost shaking with how badly he wants it. But John, perfect John, gives him something impossibly better. He adjusts his grip slightly on Sherlock’s hips, and then uses that grip to move him, first pushing him to slide his cock almost all the way out, then pulling him firmly back into his lap again.

 

How is it even possible that John could have known that this was what Sherlock wanted, when Sherlock himself hadn’t realised?

 

Sherlock can’t contemplate it right now. Every ounce of his attention is focused on the delicious way John is moving him, using his strength to impale him over and over, all the work coming from his biceps and very minimal movement from his hips. He feels so full and so overpowered, and it’s having the fantastic secondary effect of dragging his cock back and forth against John’s thighs. There’s a stream of vowel sounds spilling from his mouth, because he can never form words when John fucks him. He can feel his palms sweating where his fingers are clenched into tight fists, and he tries to brace his feet against the bed, but John reads him, adjusts their angle just enough to prevent Sherlock gaining any real leverage, and simultaneously begins thrusting in earnest even as he continues to pull Sherlock back onto his cock. The shift has him ramming consistently against Sherlock’s prostate again, and Sherlock can do nothing but wail and writhe and take it.

 

“Sherlock,” John pants, his voice all arousal and reverence and awe, and Sherlock loves how sexy his own name sounds coming from this man. He can’t get enough of it. And Sherlock feels his orgasm approaching him again, but this time John doesn’t relent in the face of his increasingly desperate cries. He maintains a relentless pace, making sure he keeps the angle _just so_ , giving Sherlock just enough friction against his cock with his thighs that Sherlock is powerless to resist the climax of his pleasure as it overtakes him. His body is taut as he comes, jerking uncontrollably as John fucks him straight through it, vaguely aware of the spurts of semen coating John’s thighs and his own abdomen. He shouts and screams incoherently as he rides the bursts of orgasm, his body finally falling limp and spent as the waves begin to recede, and he revels in the hazy afterglow as he feels John begin to lose his rhythm.

 

Something about seeing Sherlock come because of him always turns him almost primitively sexual. His grip tightens on Sherlock’s hips, hard enough now to leave finger-shaped bruises that Sherlock will be able to admire come tomorrow, and he picks up his pace as he chases his own release. Sherlock also loves this part, where he’s loose and relaxed and dazed in the wake of his own orgasm, and he just knows that his body is continuing to bring John pleasure, and he feels so deliciously used. He can satisfy John; all he wants is to satisfy John. So he doesn’t filter the whimpers that John continues to draw out of him, and he doesn’t hold back his joyous and sated grin when he feels John’s thrusts start to stutter, a tell-tale sign of his orgasm, accompanied by the deep groaning sounds that John only makes when he’s absolutely lost in his own climax.

 

They stay like this, Sherlock’s muscles quivering and John’s grip unrelenting, breathing heavily until John’s cock starts to soften and he gently pulls out. He strokes Sherlock’s sweat-clammy back a few times with shaking hands before he finally flops down on the bed beside him. Sherlock is too exhausted to move; it’s all he can manage to turn his head and gaze at John through glassy eyes, as John continues to get his breath back on the pillow next to him.

 

“You’ll be the death of me,” John eventually groans, sounding just as spent as Sherlock feels. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

 

Sherlock merely grunts in response. His brain isn’t ready to do words again yet. But John smiles over at him, and he can’t help but smile back, the sudden rush of love he feels for this man catching him off-guard, as it often does.

 

John reaches out to tangle their fingers together, and without thinking about it at all, Sherlock squeezes them back.


End file.
